


Hope Never Dies

by Ryxl



Category: Diablo III
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Short, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryxl/pseuds/Ryxl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's face it, no one likes Leah. And why is that? Because she was written to be a blind fool. But what if there were no convenient player character to run around and be the hero? What if Leah hadn't been lobotomized by bad writing? This is a handful of brief scenes from an alternate timeline in which Leah is NOT an idiot, and events weren't scripted around a player. Spoilers for Acts 1, 3, and 4, I guess, but if you haven't played through the story at least once, why are you looking for fanfiction?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prophesy

**Author's Note:**

> So. A few details of the timeline: Adria was not Leah's mother, she just arranged for Gillian the barmaid to get knocked up. Deckard Cain did not die, he went undercover - and he was safe in his warm house when the star fell. No one actually trusted Adria although they pretended they did, and there was a little...incident...with Kulle that left Leah with an expendable host body for Daddy Dearest.

_“Well, Leah, the explosion doesn’t seem to have harmed you.” Uncle Deckard rolls my sleeves back down, the cool tingle of his magical probe retreating. “It seems the magic came from inside you, in response to the threat on your life.”_

_He’s as calm as if he were interpreting some ancient runes, slightly curious and mildly excited, but my heart drops into my stomach._

_“But Uncle, I don’t have power like that.”_

_“You don’t have power like that that you know of,” he corrects with a gentle smile._

_I huff. “If I’ve got that kind of magic, how come I can’t use it?”_

_He taps me on the forehead. “Because you don’t know how, dear child. Horodric training can only teach you how to use the powers inherent to humanity.”_

_This isn’t helping. I lick suddenly-dry lips. “What other powers are there?” It’s not exactly a question; more like a plea to kill the horrible certainty sitting like lead where my heart should be._

_“My dear, I believe you to be a nephalem.”_

_Twelve may be on the cusp of being a young woman, but I feel like a child again, terrified and alone and yearning for the blissfully ignorant comfort of my mother’s skirts. “But Uncle…the only demon walking the world when I would have been conceived…”_

_“I know, Leah,” he says gently, hugging me close. “And I think it’s time I started telling you about that dark time. Your birth could not have been an accident; not with where I found you. No doubt the forces behind your conception will have designs on you, and knowledge will be the best weapon I can give you to counter them.”_

 

I blink to clear the memory from my eyes, turning slightly so as to break contact with the stranger’s golden ones. If it weren’t obvious enough that he’s not normal – I mean, who falls from the sky in a ball of fire, breaks three floors of a cathedral, and isn’t a charred, splattered mess? – then causing a full-on flashback to _that_ memory would have tipped me off.

“Come on,” I say with a sigh, reaching for his hand. “Let’s get you back to Uncle Deckard so we can figure you out.”

 

_White and gold; light and harmonies the human mind was never meant to comprehend._

_“All I am guilty of, Imperius, is bringing justice.”_

_Terror, thrilling through my being. Certainty, solid as truth itself. Cold anger, hot joy._

_“You cannot judge me! I am Justice itself!”_

_A ripping, terrible and right. The harmonies ripple and falter, as though heard underwater. This is wrong, sacrilege, but at the same time – so_ very _right._

 

My hand jerks back of its own accord. Startled, the stranger stares at me. No, not ‘the stranger’. I know who he is, even if he does not. I have been able to rattle off lists of angels and demons alike since I was eight. This is, or was, Tyrael. Three deep breaths and the invocation of the strongest mental barrier I know, and I reach for his hand again and pull him to his feet.

“Come on,” I repeat. “Let’s get you back and figure out what kind of mess we’re about to get into.”

“I came…with a warning…” His voice is deep and soothing, like a father telling his child that everything is well. Not _my_ father, of course, but an archetypal Good Father.

“At the end of days, the first sign shall appear in the heavens. Justice shall fall on the world of men. The armies of light and shadow will clash across the fields of eternity.” The words taste like ash in my mouth, ringing hollowly off the broken stone around us. Uncle Deckard drilled me in the prophesies enough that they tumble effortlessly to the front of my mind. He always said that they were written with oblique precision; that is, they seem like vague nonsense until the events they describe actually take place, and then there can be no mistaking it.

My skin crawls. It can’t be a coincidence that he should arrive here, exactly where I am. Exactly where it all started. I’m not foolish enough to think that I will be allowed to just sit this out. They say you should fight fire with fire, but am I to be the flame the world fights with, or against?


	2. Caravan

“I’m goin’ with ye.”

Haedrig’s brogue shatters my train of thought and I glance around the inn to see if anyone’s taking interest in our little corner. “What? No, I’m not taking you with us.”

The blacksmith shrugs burly shoulders. “Yer takin’ the caravan to Caldeum? So am I. Whether ye take me or not, I’m goin’ with ye. There be nothin’ for me here with Mira gone, an’ I need somethin’ more than makin’ spades an’ horseshoes t’ occupy my time.”

“We’re hunting down witches and demons,” I point out. “It’s not going to be safe.”

“It hasn’t been safe here either, if ye recall,” he retorts bitterly, and I have to give him that. “I’m no fighter, but I can make weapons for them that are, an’ that’s just as good, in my mind.”

“A warrior without a weapon does not last long,” Tyrael says in that resonant, grounding voice of his. “And a weapon forged by a brave heart serves its master well.”

“I wouldn’t mind a steady supply of free arrowheads,” Lyndon chimes in, and I know I’m outnumbered.

“It’s settled, then.” Haedrig takes a seat on the bench next to Uncle Deckard. “Now, I assume ye got enemies sniffin’ at yer tail?”

Lyndon offers him a lopsided grin. “You could say that, yes.”

“An’ they’re gonna be on the lookout for a young girl with pale hair an’ her elderly uncle.”

“I can dye my hair,” I say, “but it’s not going to be so easy to disguise Uncle Deckard.”

“Ye might be surprised. He can travel with me; cart’s easier on old bones than a horse, anyway. Isn’t that right, grandpa?”

“I won’t deny it,” Uncle Deckard quavers, “but your grandfather is too well-known around these parts for me to pass for him.”

“O’ course not.” Haedrig jerks his chin at Lyndon. “Yer not _my_ grandpa, yer the father o’ my wastrel brother-in-law over there.”

“Me?”

“Why not? Mira wasn’t from around here, and no one knows ye. Who’s to say yer not the younger brother o’ my late wife, here with her sainted father on yer coattails t’ beg for my mercy after ye squandered yer inheritance?”

“Oh, he’s good. I like him.”

“With Mira gone, I’m headed back t’ Caldeum t’ ply my trade there,” he continues as if Lyndon hadn’t spoken. “It’s only natural I’d take my wife’s kin with me, an’ my father-in-law clearly can’t be a young woman’s uncle.”

“But where does that leave Leah?” Tyrael asks.

“At the side of her new husband,” the blacksmith replies promptly.

I glance at the mortal angel. “No one’s going to believe we’re newlyweds.”

“Alright, then. He’s the bond-man o’ yer betrothed, fetching ye t’ his master’s side for the wedding yer parents arranged at yer birth. He’s t’ make sure ye don’t get frisky with anyone on the trip. That better?”

“A young woman on the way to an arranged marriage with a man-at-arms, and the grandfather of a scoundrel brother-in-law to a blacksmith. A far cry indeed from a girl and her uncle,” Uncle Deckard says warmly.

“I can wear a headscarf if you can look impassive and maybe surly,” I say to Tyrael.

“I think I can manage that,” he replies with an absolute serious expression. It’s hard to tell if he’s deadpanning, or being earnest.

“The caravan should be here tomorrow.” I glance around the table. “We should get everything together tonight. Haedrig, you’ll do the talking for Lyndon and Un- his father, and I’ll get out a headscarf and make the arrangements for myself and Ty-rel, the bond-man of Mistress Liara’s betrothed. They’ll be on the road again at first light, so if we’re careful and quiet, we can sneak Grandfather over to your place and it will be a few days before anyone notices Leah and her uncle are gone."

“I believe I am conveniently coming down with a cold,” Uncle Deckard says with a twinkle in his eye. “No doubt I will need to stay in bed for a week with you to tend me.”

“I believe you are, Uncle. Let me go talk to the cook and see if I can get a chicken to make soup with.”

Lyndon stares at us with mock-pride. “You’re all as dishonest as me. I think I may cry from joy.” He glances at Tyrael. “Well, not you. I don’t think you have a dishonest bone in your body. In any case, I believe I shall take my leave of you all – blacksmith, you’ll find me in your stable later.”

Haedrig nods. “I’ll stay here a while longer an’ drown my sorrows. Perhaps I’ll do a bit o’ lamentin’.”

 

************************************************************************************* 

 

“If you were a man, Mistress Liara, you would make a glorious Templar!” Kormac cleans greenish fluids from his sword and checks his shield for dents.

I shoot him a sharp look as I tuck my daggers back away. “What do you mean, if I were a man? Your order doesn’t accept women?”

He looks uncomfortable at that. “Well…no.”

“And why not?”

“Women are the fairer sex; they should be protected and cherished, not subjected to the rigors of battle.”

Is he even listening to what he’s saying? “You mean like the battle we just had?”

Kormac shifts from foot to foot. I roll my eyes and gesture for him to follow as I hop back onto the wagon and signal the caravan master that we’re ready to continue when everyone else is. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he mounts up again.

“Kormac, what are you not telling me?” I ask once we’re underway again.

“Warriors of my order are plucked like weeds from the fields of the righteous, purified through blood and pain. We were criminals,” he clarifies at my blank expression. “Our sins are stripped from us through physical punishment, leaving us pure weapons of the Light.”

My carefully-dyed eyebrows arch skeptically. “And you think women can’t be criminals?”

“Even a woman sullied with crime should not be used so,” he retorts stiffly.

“So tell me,” I say sweetly, “how are female criminals punished in Westmarch?”

Kormac looks away, clearly troubled, and I leave him to his thoughts.

 

“I do not understand,” Kormac says as we clean up from yet another skirmish with some goblin-demons, “how evil can walk in the day. Should it not fear the light?”

The knowledge that my father walked the world with impunity leaps into my mouth, but I swallow it. “Perhaps the sun is neutral,” I suggest blandly.

He gestures with his sword towards the corpses. “But the Light is both a literal and figurative foe of evil!”

“Then maybe what you’re seeing isn’t evil.” I shouldn’t bait him like this, but the long hours between attacks are very boring without being able to while them away with Uncle Deckard.

He goes up the caravan while I go down, checking to make sure no one needs help before I climb back up on the wagon


	3. Hope

I drop the demon as soon as I feel his life dissipate, his blood dripping from my claws as I run for the jagged black prison, hooves slipping slightly on whatever this surface is, tail out for balance. The armored red skin of my arms looks horribly out of place against the angel’s bright armor and the soft glow of – her? – wings. However, it looks equally horribly _right_ against the seething semi-crystalline spikes. I pull them back with effort, and the angel drops into my arms. I support her until she gets her feet beneath her, trying not to accidentally scratch her with any of the spikes or spines this form has.

“Are you alright?” My voice is harsh and guttural in this form, and I wince.

“No.” Hers, by contrast, is melody and harmony all in one. “I am dying.”

My heart plummets.

“I had hoped the Scroll of Fate was wrong,” she continues, one delicately-glowing gauntlet caressing the mockery of a cheek I have before dropping to where my heart would be. “And in a way, it was. Because your fate, nephalem, is not recorded on the Scroll.”

It’s the first time that word has not felt like an epithet. Uttered by her musical voice, it sounds like a blessing. I swallow. “What do you mean?”

She looks at me, soft darkness beneath the hood, and her hand on my chest feels warm – not hot, but nearly unbearably comfortable, like every happy memory I’ve ever had.

“You were my hope when I had none,” her voice sings softly. “And so, you shall be Hope for everyone.”

The warmth spreads through my hideous body as she slumps against me. I do my best to hold her gently, hot tears slipping down my misshapen face from the eyes that burn with an unholy glow. The soft pink glow of her wings flickers, those floating tendrils retracting as the life that had powered them dims. It doesn’t take more than a few breaths before I am holding empty armor, the hood falling down inside it.

When I kneel to place it reverently on the floor, I see pink tendrils floating out of the corners of my eyes. The warmth of Auriel’s life shifts within me, flowing through my veins, flowing over my skin, and then it settles into place with a _rightness_ that defies words. I stand and stretch my wings as the meaning of her last words registers.

Hope, huh? I can work with that.


	4. Diablo

“What’s the matter?” I taunt, my voice deeper and rough. “Didn’t Adria ever tell you where she got the body to be your vessel?”

“Such things are too petty to waste my time with,” he returns, along with a taloned backhand that sends me skidding across the floor. I dig my own claws in and screech to a stop on all fours, tail held out for balance. “I am the Lord of Terror. Even you, nephalem, will succumb to your own fear.”

“Yeah, about that. How about no?” My tail twitches, like a cat. “You see, I’m your daughter. You sired me while you were still killing Aidan. You’re not going to win this because I’ve already beaten you.”

“What?!?” He crouches down, prepared to pounce, and his eyes narrow as the similarities strike him.

“I lived with you in my body. In my head. I lived with that terror, and in the end? You don’t scare me anymore, _Dad._ The Scroll of Fate can’t be changed. Itherael has seen your defeat.”

“Impossible,” he growls confidently. “The Scroll records none who can defeat me. My servant has slain Hope, and the High Heavens fell before me. I climbed unchallenged to the Crystal Arch, just as was written, with none to oppose me.”

I bare my fangs in a grin. “Oh, that’s the other thing. The Scroll doesn’t record the nephalem at all.”

His head jerks back, and his claws tighten their grip on the impossible substance the angels use as a floor.

“And one more thing, Dad.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Dad. Daddy. Dadablo. _Father_. You sired me, now take responsibility like a man.”

“I will kill you slowly and painfully, and then I will torture your soul for all eternity.”

“No, I don’t think you will. You see…” I smirk as the first pink tendrils snake out of the biggest spines on my shoulders, and his eyes widen. “Your servant killed Auriel. But Hope never dies.”


End file.
